Another six weeks gone by.

Six miserable weeks.

I’ve discovered something interesting during the long grey days since I destroyed my life. I’ve discovered that despite what they say, time is not a great healer. Every morning I wake up hoping that the simple fact that a few more restless empty hours have elapsed will in itself provide me with some relief from the pain of my self-inflicted wounds, and every morning I’m disappointed. Time has healed nothing. I still have the sickness in my stomach and the hopelessness in my head. I still loathe myself and I still love Lucy, who is at this very moment in bed with Carl Phipps (it’s two in the morning). Trevor says that four and a half months is not long enough and that if you want time to have any real chance of healing then you have to be thinking in terms of years, possibly decades. This, not surprisingly, is little comfort.

I’m afraid to say that I’m in danger of turning into a very sad act indeed.

I get pissed every night and I haven’t washed my sheets in a month.

I’m writing this entry in my book, by the way, because I got a letter from Lucy today and I don’t know what else to do with myself. Actually it’s not a letter, it’s an email. This amazed me, incidentally. When we lived together Lucy couldn’t even work the timer on the cooker. I suppose the bastard has taught her. I shouldn’t think someone as cool as him would want a girlfriend who did anything as terminally unhip as post a letter.

I’d written to her asking if she wanted a divorce and also if she knew where the key to the garden shed was, because the lawn is now about a foot high.

I’ll download Lucy’s reply into this file. I want to keep it and this book seems as good a place as any.

Dear Sam

The key to the garden shed is under the second fuchsia pot on the right of the door. If this is the first time your thoughts have turned to the garden then I imagine that all the plants will be dead. If they are not, please give them TLC immediately. There is plant food in the shed. If greenfly or similar is in evidence fill the hand spray with soapy water and administer a gentle soaking. Do NOT use chemicals as the garden is entirely organic. Actually I should imagine that it’s entirely cat shit by now because you have to go round and trowel it up once a week or it mounts up.

I suppose that I want a divorce in that we’re clearly not married any more and perhaps it’s time to formalize that. However, I don’t think it’s fair that it’s me who has to say to you that I want a divorce. After all, I clearly don’t want a divorce in that I never wanted our marriage to come to an end. The only reason I want a divorce is because of what you did and I wouldn’t want a divorce if you hadn’t done it, therefore in a real sense it’s you that wants a divorce. Having said that, I suppose I do want a divorce. But not right now. I just don’t think I could face it at the moment.

I can’t believe it’s come to this, Sam. How could you have been so stupid?

Yours, etc., etc. Lucy.

She actually wrote “etc., etc.”. I don’t think I’ll open this document again.

Dear Sam

Four more months have passed and once again I find that I feel the need to collect my thoughts.

Next week is the première of Inconceivable. Everyone is very excited about the film and the opening is to be rather a grand affair. We’re promised television cameras and the presence of celebrities. The film is already being spoken of as the new British movie. I must say, there seems to be a the new British movie about once a week these days. I don’t want to be cynical about my own film, but the phoenix of British cinema has risen from the ashes so often it must be getting quite dizzy.

Lucy is going to attend the première.

I didn’t think that she would, but the publicist has just confirmed that she’s coming, and will of course be on the arm of Carl Phipps. The publicist assures me that she expects them to be very much the golden couple of the night and to attract a lot of press. Along with Nimnh and Ewan Proclaimer, that is. Ewan has left his wife Morag for Nimnh. This sort of thing is of course very common in the world of films. He really is the most appalling bastard. One gorgeous, sensitive woman isn’t enough for him. He has to have a whole succession of them. Well, I’ve discovered that one gorgeous, sensitive woman was certainly enough for me and I lost her and now I’m not remotely interested in any other and don’t think I ever will be.

The première is of course a real emotional issue for me. At first I thought I’d stay away, not knowing if I could face seeing Lucy with Phipps. George and Trevor, however, say that I have to come. They point out that the film is very good and that this should be celebrated. Actually I’ve seen a tape and I think that it’s good too. Ewan Proclaimer may be an arrogant, heartless bastard, but he certainly deserves his reputation as a hot director. Perhaps the two go hand in hand. George and Trevor also point out that the story is mine (and Lucy’s) and that if anyone should be present at the moment of triumph it should be me. After all, George argued with his customary brutal honesty, I’ve fucked up my entire life and sacrificed the only thing I had that was worth having in order to write this movie. I might as well go to the party.

Dear Penny

I never expected to open this book again. It ended so sadly I imagined I’d want nothing more to do with it. Now, however, I have something to say that should be recorded here because it’s the end of the story and also the beginning. Besides this, I have no one else to talk to, Penny. I don’t want to talk to Carl because it might be nothing and if it is nothing I’d prefer never to have to think of it again, and if it isn’t nothing then I don’t want to speak until I know for sure. This is why you, Penny, must be my only confidante.

You see, I think I might be pregnant. I’m three weeks late and the tester from Boots has proved positive. I’ve made an appointment to see Dr Cooper tomorrow.

I can hardly allow myself to believe that it might finally have happened.

PENNY!

Dr Cooper has confirmed it. This is the single happiest moment of my life. I am numb with joy.

I must stay calm, however. These are very early days; it could all still go wrong.

I’ve been concentrating very hard on my breathing.

A baby, Penny! Imagine it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from life.

It’s now a little later. I’ve been making some camomile tea and attempting to centre myself. My heart has been pounding so mightily since I got back from the surgery that I’m scared I’m going to shake everything right out of me. I must struggle to control my joy.

Perhaps it’ll help if I confess to you, Penny, that this joy is also tinged with one tiny element of sadness. You know what it is, of course. I’ve written to you so often about my love for Sam that you will not have expected the passing of that love to leave no mark on me at all. It is of course very sad that Sam, whom I loved so much and for so long and with whom I shared so many disappointments, can be no part of this wonderful moment.

It’s not that I wish that the baby was his, not at all. I loved Sam with all my heart but love when it is not reciprocated is a pretty useless thing and I walked away. I thought that Sam loved me and I’m quite sure that he thought he did too, but he didn’t. What he did to me proved that. If you love someone you do not use them and abuse them, you do not betray them utterly. Love has to include respect and consideration and trust. It’s a partnership in which one partner protects the other. Sam didn’t protect me and he didn’t love me. He didn’t love anyone, certainly not himself. Poor Sam.